


All You Have to do is Believe

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first six months after Sherlock's death had not been easy for John Watson. Until he saw something that changed his mind and would ultimately change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You Have to do is Believe

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unknown](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/35109) by (Was unable to confirm artist. If someone knows who the artist is, please let me know). 



> A Sherlock (BBC) fanfic based on a piece of fan art that I was unable to confirm the creator of. Sherlock does not belong to me, he, Watson and everyone else belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and of course, the man himself, Sir Arthur Conon Doyle.

On that first day, John had dreaded returning to 221B Baker Street. It had taken him a while of staring at the stairs before climbing them slowly, the weight of what he had just witnessed, what Molly had confirmed for him, growing heavier with each step. John Watson didn’t even register Mrs. Hudson’s cries coming from the other flat. His hand shook as it hovered over the doorknob, dreading the moment he would open the door and see the usual mess and smell the pungent perfume that had somehow managed to permanently permeate the flat.

John only left the flat to see his therapist but let’s face it; it was a waste of time. The flat had become the prime example of the five stages of grief and while John usually enjoyed a comfortable, clean living environment, the disorder only kept Sherlock alive that much more. Plates sitting in the strainer by the sink began to collect dust and once the milk in the fridge went bad, John stopped buying it. Each time there was a loud noise, John would begin to shout for Sherlock to knock it off when the fact that Sherlock was dead would come flooding back. Despite the number of sessions he had with that therapist, he had eyed his handgun, much like the days before Sherlock, but even if his hand reached shaking toward the black metal, he could never fully wrap his fingers around it.

\-----

It was six months after Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Barts. John had avoided the hospital and its vicinity at all costs, not just because it was the place his best friend had taken his life, but the press had been hounding anyone who was close to Sherlock, or as close to Sherlock as Sherlock had allowed, for some exclusive. The thought of going back there was too painful. Sherlock’s blood had long since been washed from the pavement but John still saw it as vividly as the day he scrambled to grab Sherlock’s wrist.

He had no reason to be at Barts. He had been ignoring calls from Lestrade, despite Lestrade’s term on desk duty. He answered few calls from Molly but never went to see her in the morgue. John’s hand were shoved deep in his pocket, while the other clutched at the cane he had never gotten rid of, as he walked across the roof of the hospital. He felt strangely empty. There was no pain, no heartache, and no anger. Or perhaps it was all of those things all mixed together into one completely numbing emotion that had yet to be named. He had no more tears to shed; his voice had become hoarse from the sobbing, the yelling and the lack of use. John looked around, unlike Sherlock, there would be no note. There would be no one to miss him. Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, they would move on with their lives.

He stepped cautiously to the edge. He looked out over, watching the people below doing their own things, not a care in the world, not noticing the former army doctor standing on the edge. The press would have a field day with the headlines, John could see them now **Distraught Blogger Copies Fake Genius’s Fall**. John raised his hand, as if reaching out toward someone. He could remember Sherlock doing the same, urging in a voice John will never forget, for the army doctor to stay where he was and keep his eyes fixed on Sherlock. With his hand still raised, John leaned forward, his breathing shallow as he braced himself for the feeling of hitting the ground. Would it hurt? If it did, would he even feel it? Would he even care if he felt the pain? “I’ll see you soon, mate,” he murmured, swallowing hard before looking down. There were cars and lorries stopped just below. His eyes dropped and felt as if his heart were just clenched in the hands of the Golem. John swayed slightly, setting his balance back on his heels. It just couldn’t be possible. Someone had to be playing some cruel joke. There was no way it could be real but John felt the tears fall once more. _I believe in John Watson –SH_ was spray painted on the top of the vehicles.

John clambered backwards, sinking down into a squat as he clapped a hand over his mouth. He had spent the past couple months, once he could bring himself to leave the flat more often, trying to clear Sherlock’s name and to see the same words he had been using applied to his own name, signed with Sherlock’s text signature no less, was too much to bear. John’s red-rimmed, shadowed eyes glanced back to where he had been standing moments before and felt a hot, bubbling sensation in his gut. John had felt guilt before but not like this since the morning before he met Sherlock. While Sherlock obviously couldn’t have written the message, John didn’t have to be the world’s only consulting detective to figure that out, someone out there did and for John, that made him stop.

\----

Seeing that sign from the roof had done something to John. He felt renewed. The pain of losing Sherlock was still there of course, John doubted he would ever fully recover from it, but to know that someone out there, whoever had masqueraded as Sherlock in that one moment, believed in John and what John had been trying to say all along, well, John felt damn proud of that. For one shining moment it felt as if Sherlock was beside him again, ready to head off to another case. It was that pride and that belief in him that would get John through this.

Hurrying through the hall and about to turn to the next to go to the canteen before returning to 221B to try and tidy up a bit, John was knocked off balance, his cane clattering to the tiled floor, and heard the fluttering of papers around them. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he scrambled to say, kneeling down and scooping files and papers into his hands.

“No, it’s okay. I was distracted myself. Should know better than to hug the wall when coming around a corner,” a female voice replied, laughing slightly.

Sitting back on his heels, John finally looked up at the woman with a small smile. “I shouldn’t have been rushing. I didn’t hurt you did I?” he asked holding out the papers in his hands and looked to see if there was any physical damage to the woman. He wasn’t known as John “Three Continents” Watson for nothing and had learned a thing or two along the way. She had a pretty oval face with short, wavy blonde hair that appeared to suit her very well. John watched as her lips twisted into a slight smirk. “There are better ways to check a woman out, you know,” she quipped, taking the papers from John.

He was not prepared for her quick wit but found himself liking it. “Well allow me to make it up to you. Let me take you for coffee, it’s the least I could do,” he replied, clambering to his feet, and holding out his hand for her. “I’m…John by the way, John Watson.” John wasn’t sure how his name, which had been featured in the papers under a flurry of ridiculous titles and speculation, would register to the woman.

“Coffee would be lovely. It’s nice to meet you, John. I’m Mary Morstan.”

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my first Sherlock related fic so please please let me know what you think of it.


End file.
